


The Insistence of Memory

by Plenoptic



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Dead characters are still alive no questions asked, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, That's right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:39:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elita One--amnesiac herself, and struggling to reconstruct her memories--finds one Bucky Barnes in a bar bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Insistence of Memory

_Brooklyn, New York_

 

“This is a bad idea.”

“Sure.”

“We should think this through.”

“Probably.”

“We should have told Optimus.”

“Yeah.”

“So can we stop for a moment and talk about this? Please?”

The woman stopped and pivoted on one heel, frowning at her companion. She stood just outside the door of the bar, backlit by the watery light from within. “I’ve been tracking him for months. If I lose him here, I may not get him back. And I’m not leaving without him.”

The man standing behind her winced, stamping his feet to ward off the cold creeping into his combat boots. “Well, I’m not leaving without you.”

“Then keep the car running.” She turned up the collar of her coat and pushed the door open, stepping into the bar.

The place reeked. Several men lay passed out on the bar; three others smoked by an open window, fingers trembling as they lifted cigarettes to their lips. She crossed the room, ignoring their stares, and rapped a fist on the bar. The bartender glanced up and arched an eyebrow.

“You lost, lady?”

“No. I’m looking for a guy named James. Is he around?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Anyone here tonight who isn’t a regular?”

“You a cop?”

She offered him her prettiest smile. “I’m just looking for my friend.”

He considered her for a moment, looking away only when the beer he was pouring began to overfill. “There’s some weirdo in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yeah. Guys’ room. Muttering to himself. Only had a drink or two. We figured he was nuts, were just gonna call the cops if he got violent.”

“Do you mind if I go talk to him?”

“Do what you want, lady. Just watch your ass.”

“I will. Thank you.” She pushed off the bar and tucked her hands into her pockets, walking toward the bathrooms in the back.

She pushed the swinging door open and froze, inhaling sharply at the scene before her. The mirror had been shattered; shards littered the floor, glinting wetly in the flickering light. All the faucets ran; the paper towel dispenser had been smashed. He sat against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him, opening and closing his hands, gazing at them emptily. Swallowing, she stepped inside and let the door swing closed.

“Are you James?”

No response. She took two steps forward, letting her hands hang by her sides, non-threatening.

“James Buchanan Barnes? Is that you?”

He twitched but didn’t lift his head. Long locks of dark hair hung over his eyes, his shoulders, making his face look sallow and haunted. She came to a halt before him and knelt down, biting her lower lip.

“Bucky?”

He looked at her, directly and suddenly, dark eyes narrowed and suspicious. His tongue flicked out, wetting cracked lips, and when he spoke his voice wavered. “Who’re you?”

She took a slow breath, held it, exhaled. _Finally_. “My name is Elita One.”

“What d’you want?”

“I’m a soldier. Part of a very special task force dedicated to protecting Earth. And I know what happened to you.”

Bucky blinked slowly. “So?”

“So I want to help you, Bucky. I know what Hydra did—I know your memories are fractured. I think I can help you get them back. I can help make you… _you_ again.”

“Why do you want to help me?”

She swallowed. "I'm...I'm like you. Something happened to me, to..." She tapped a finger against her temple. "Something up here. I found a way to help myself—to reconstruct my memories. Maybe I can help you do the same." The smile she offered him was a soft, pretty thing. “Because Earth is my home now. And if you can help it, then I’m more than willing to help you.”

Bucky blinked at her—a slow, thoughtful batting of his dark lashes. “Earth is everyone’s home. Unless you’re one of… one of _them_.”

“One of what, Mr. Barnes?”

“Something that’s not… that’s not _human_.”

She smiled and rapped her knuckles against her chest. “You’re right. I’m not. This body is synthetic. But I’m sentient.”

“How do I know?”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Talking to you. I care about Earth. I’m capable of good will. I have a partner that I love very, very much.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. But taking a chance has to be better than sitting by yourself in a bar bathroom.” She tilted her head to the side. “Right?”

He stared at her a moment longer—stared at her with dark, haunted eyes. A tremor seemed to pass through him. “If you hurt me, I’ll kill you.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“But if you do—”

“I won’t, James. I’m a protector. That’s what I do.”

Another long silence—she met his gaze with quiet resolve. Finally, he nodded, bracing his hands against the wall and pushing himself to his feet. She followed suit, slipping her hands back into her pockets.

“My ride’s outside. Do you need to stop somewhere?”

“No.”

“Need anything before we go?”

“No.”

“Clothes? Belongings?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Alright. Come with me.”

Elita led the way out of the bathroom, Bucky trailing along at her heels. The bartender looked up and stared at them, raising his eyebrows at her easy smile.

“Lady, are you…?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” She dropped a wad of bills on the bar as she passed. “Sorry about the damage.”

Blinking, he picked up the money, counted out six crisp hundreds. “Uh. Yeah. No problem, I guess.” But he didn’t look up as Bucky passed.

The car idled in the parking lot. As they approached, a man stepped out of the driver’s seat, placing a hand on his belt and watching Bucky apprehensively.

“Hands off the firearms, Ratch,” Elita said sharply, and he lowered his hand. “We’re good here. Let’s get him out of this dump.” She turned to Bucky and opened up the back door. “I hope you like warm weather, Mr. Barnes.”

_Six months later_

_Diego Garcia_

“Oh, boy.” Steve Rogers sat back from the window, shaking his head.  “What have you gotten me into, Romanov?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Natasha twisted in her seat, offering him a wide grin. Her voice crackled over the intercom in his helmet. “Don’t like oceans, Captain?”

“I’ve just had more than my share. That’s all.” Steve snuck another glance out the window. The Indian Ocean stretched out beneath them, a seamless field of blue interspersed by white ribbons. “Where are we going?”

“That’s classified. Sorry.”

“How many times do I have to save the planet before my security clearance matches yours?”

“I hear third time’s the charm.”

“Is that what I’m doing out here, Nat? Is this my number three?”

“Maybe. Our friends seem to think so.”

“Which friends are those?”

“You’ll see. Sit back and enjoy the view, Cap.”

They flew on for another hour; Steve closed his eyes, let the hum of the chopper lull him toward something like sleep. Exhaustion pricked at every nerve in his body. Sleep had been a hard thing to come by lately—since Ultron. (Since Bucky.) He had new Avengers to train, new comrades to support. They were good—bright kids. Smart. Tough. Fewer problem children than the original crew, that was for sure. But they worshiped him, looked up to him like an idol. Their adoration was touching, but tiring. He walked around under a constant spotlight, harried by their attentions, all too conscious of the influence he had over them. He missed having a place where he could just be. No Captain America, no Avengers, no war or training, no soldiers, just...him. Just Steve.

“Hey, Cap.” Natasha didn’t turn around this time, but her voice filtered through his helmet, quiet but clear. “This is gonna be tough. I won’t lie to you. But it’s also gonna be real good.”

The small island of Diego Garcia came into view just as Steve was nodding off. The chopper carried them maybe a mile or two inland before beginning its descent, lowering itself down through the clear blue sky toward the black tarmac below. Steve tapped his toes through the familiar dismount, waiting until the spinning blades overhead had slowed somewhat before removing his helmet and hauling the door open.

A man stood waiting for them on the tarmac; Steve sized him up wordlessly before approaching. Black. A little short. Good-looking. He wore black sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes. Had the look of a soldier, but his crisp black uniform wasn’t one Steve recognized.

“Shit, man,” the guy said, snapping one hand up to his brow in an easy salute. “You’re the _Cap_.”

“Steve.” They shook.

“Call me Jazz. I run special ops around these parts. I also pick up guest celebrities, apparently. Hey, Nat!” The man called Jazz reached around Steve to trap Natasha in a bone-breaking hug, which she endured with remarkable tolerance. “Good to see you, girl! How’re the new superheros treating you? Good?”

“Yeah, not a bad crew. Is he ready for us?”

“Oh—you mean your guy? Nah, not quite. Lita's talkin’ him down from an episode.” Jazz picked up Steve’s single cargo bag and hauled it effortlessly over his shoulder. “Come on. Boss wants to see you kids.”

They left the copter on the landing strip and headed off in the direction of several immense warehouses, sunlight flashing off their steel facades. Jazz whistled as they walked, casting glances over his shoulder every so often until Steve tired of his scrutiny.

“Something you want to ask, soldier?”

“Nah. Just can’t believe I’m meetin’ the legend. You know? I’ve known a lot of good soldiers in my time, Cap, but only one other like you.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

Jazz grinned. “You’ll see in just a sec.”

Natasha drew level with their escort, talking with him animatedly, and Steve lingered behind them, taking in his new surroundings. He’d never been to the Diego Garcia base. Tall concrete walls fenced off the base from the outside world. Three huge black hangars stood nearby. Soldiers darted this way and that, exchanging jokes and orders. All wore the same black uniform—no country identifier, no stars or bars to convey rank. NEST, emblazoned in white letters, decorated their backs. Some wore an icon on their left shoulder—some sort of red, mechanical-appearing face.

“Questions, Cap?”

Steve turned to Jazz, who grinned back at him. “Yeah. A few. I think I’ll withhold them for now, though, if it’s all the same to you.”

The other man’s grin widened. “Kinda figured you would.”

They approached the nearest hangar, and Jazz flashed a card at the woman standing by the door. She nodded and stepped aside for them, offering Steve a dazzling smile as he passed.

“Welcome, Cap.”

“Uh—thanks.” He caught up to Natasha and nudged her in the ribs. “Why does everyone know me?”

“You’re not really surprised, are you?”

“That soldiers of no particular designation on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean all know me by face and name? Yeah, Romanov, I’m a _little_ surprised.”

The Black Widow snickered. “Oh man, Cap. You could be in trouble here.”

They stepped through a second set of doors, and the apprehension building in Steve’s chest abruptly eased—at once he knew those smells, those sounds, the frenetic energy in this place. The hangar was a gym; a boxing ring stood in its center (admittedly a very large ring, big enough for ten guys to tussle, easy), and soldiers of all colors and shapes and sizes made good use of the lifting equipment and heavy bags, or cooled off in the corner, laughing and tossing light-hearted punches.

“This way,” Jazz said brightly, beckoning them forward, and they trooped across the hangar toward the boxing ring. Six soldiers all in black civvies, shirts clinging to sweaty backs—and five of them were getting their asses handed to them by the sixth, a big guy who was but a whirl of motion.

Jazz whistled, and a man standing outside the ring turned toward them, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “—and heart rate is—oh. What do you want?”

“Brought the VIP.” Jazz jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Steve, who jumped a little. “Boss ready for him?”

Before the other man could answer, one of the soldiers exited—well, fell out of and scrambled away from—the ring, panting and clutching a bleeding nose.

“I tap, okay?” he snapped, before the frowning spectator could so much as open his mouth. “Fuck that, the fuck were you thinking, Ratch, _damn_ …” Shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, he pushed past Steve and headed for the exit.

“Damn it, Sunstreaker.” ‘Ratch’ turned to the ring and whistled. “Hey! Enough.”

The four soldiers bolted before he’d even finished speaking, pushing past one another to slip beneath the ropes. The one remaining soldier remained in the ring, propping his fists on his hips and releasing a long, slow exhale—a little winded, maybe, but Steve expected a normal man to be flat out exhausted from a bout like that.

“How do you feel, Boss?” Ratchet leaned against the ring.

“Good. Tell the boys I apologize.” The soldier cracked his neck and glanced over at the rag-tag group assembled nearby. “Steve Rogers.”

Steve blinked. “Uh—yep. That’s me.”

“I know. Step in here, soldier.”

Jazz snorted. “Boss—maybe he shouldn’t—uh, Cap?”

Steve was already pulling off his coat—a mechanical thing, something he didn’t have to think to do. _Step in here, soldier._ He knew that voice—no. That tone. How many times had he taken that tone with a subordinate, a teammate—that tone that commanded respect, that galvanized hearts and minds, that made warriors out of scared boys with guns?

He pulled off his socks and shoes and climbed into the ring. He motioned to an abandoned pair of gloves and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think we need them.” The soldier squared his shoulders and clenched his fists—set his jaw. Steve liked the look of him—resolute, determined, but there was a sort of softness to him, too. A predisposition toward gentleness. Bucky had once seen the same thing in him.

“I got big money on the Cap,” Jazz drawled, leaning in over the ropes and grinning at Steve. “Hundred bucks.”

“I’m taking the big guy,” Natasha said. The soldier standing across from Steve offered her a thumbs-up.

“Much obliged, Romanov. Ratchet?”

“Obviously I’m not betting.”

“No, I mean…” The Boss chuckled and tapped the heart rate monitor strapped to his chest. “Vital signs.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes.” Ratchet hurriedly adjusted the clipboard nestled in his arm. “Of course.”

Steve faced his opponent—unexpected, but his opponent nonetheless—and lifted his fists. He didn’t recognize the other man’s stance, and Steve had encountered just about every kind of martial art on the planet.

“It’s Optimus, by the way.”

“What?”

The soldier grinned at him. “My name. Come on, Captain—you can go first.”

 

 

“Here.” An ice pack nudged the side of Steve’s head, and he took it without looking up, half-afraid that the movement alone would knock him out again. “Sorry about that. Again. Not quite—used to my strength. It was irresponsible of me to—”

“No one’s ever hit me that hard,” Steve interrupted, cautiously lifting his head and pressing the ice pack to the swelling along his jaw. “And I’m friends with the Hulk. So if it’s alright with you, I’ve got some questions.”

The man who knocked him out circled the couch and took a seat in the armchair across from him. They sat in a quiet office, sparsely decorated save for the truly astonishing amount of plants—young trees, potted shrubs, flowers the likes of which Steve had never seen. Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the window shade, but beyond that, they sat in the dark.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

“It’s Optimus?”

“Yes.”

“What is that, like—Japanese?”

Optimus chuckled. “It’s Latin. There wasn’t any translation for… well. Latin.”

Steve _hmm_ ’d and shifted the ice pack. “I guess we’re letting that one slide?”

“If it’s all the same to you.”

“Sure. How’d you get so strong? Was it like…” He gestured somewhat helplessly at himself.

“No. No experimentation. Well—nothing beyond what was needed to…” Optimus paused. “To...make me.”

For several long moments, they stared at one another in silence. Steve sat forward and placed the ice pack on the table between them.

“You’re not human. Are you?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

Optimus folded his hands between his knees. “A Cybertronian. One of a robotic race from a distant world.”

“Is that—like Asgard?”

A flicker of a smile. “No. No otherwordly realm. Just a planet like any other.”

“Well. A planet with a sleeping god at its core.”

Optimus looked up at the doorway and smiled; Steve turned around. A woman leant against the doorjamb, arms folded over her chest, red hair a cascade over her shoulder.

“That, too,” Optimus amended, getting to his feet and opening a hand toward her. She crossed the room in three easy strides and let him tug her into his chest for a tight embrace before she looked at Steve.

“Hi, Cap. Good to finally meet you.”

“I’d say the same, ma’am, but I don’t have any idea who you are.” He got to his feet and they shook briskly. She was a looker—tall and curvaceous with strong, lovely features. She wore the same strange uniform, that red face staring at him resolutely from her shoulder.

“Call me Elita. Thank you for trusting Nat enough to come here.”

“I wouldn’t call it trust so much as resignation. If Romanov wants me to go, I usually end up going.”

Elita’s grin turned almost manic. “I knew I liked her. Have a seat, Cap. Optimus, will you give us some time?”

He quirked his head to the side. “You’ll be alright?”

She reached up to pat his cheek and offered him a fleeting smile. “I’ll be fine. Ratchet is looking for you.”

Optimus wrinkled his nose. “If it’s more testing…”

“It probably is.”

“Slag.” He leaned in and kissed her very briefly before nodding at Steve and stepping out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

“So,” Elita said, climbing over the back of the couch and plopping down, patting the cushion beside her. Steve sat somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry about Optimus laying you out. Did he tell you that these bodies are artificial?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Mm. We call them facsimiles.” She turned her hand over in her lap, opening and closing the fingers. “Your friend Mr. Stark helped us create them.”

Steve blinked. “Tony did? He’s been here as well?”

“No, not here in Diego Garcia. He was surprisingly amenable to creating false bodies for aliens to inhabit. It makes me wonder just what, exactly, you boys have been through.”

“It’s... been an interesting few years,” Steve admitted. “The last time we had to deal with an artificially generated body, it was inhabited by an AI gone AWOL.”

“Ultron. Right? Nat briefed me.”

“Is that what you people are? AI?”

She quirked a brow, a somewhat sardonic smile playing around her mouth. “We’re untethered energy. Our core—our sparks—what you humans might call a soul?—can be freely transferred from one form to another. These bodies—our facsimile forms—are a hybrid product of Cybertronian and Terran engineering.” She paused, taking in his expression, and laughed. “But none of that has anything to do with why you’re here, Steve Rogers.”

“Then why am I here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind. I’m just not sure how ready you are for the answer.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I suppose you are.” She sighed and reached for him, and all the hair stood up on his arms when she placed her hand on his. “Steve? Your friend James? Bucky?—He’s here.”

Steve stared at her, and she stared right back, jaw set, eyes bluer than blue. “What?” he said, in a weak, wavering little voice that didn’t sound like his.

With a heavy sigh, Elita got to her feet and tucked her hands into her pockets. “Are you hungry?”

“No— _Bucky's_ —?”

“I am. You wouldn’t believe how much I have to eat to keep this thing going. You like hamburgers?”

“Wh—sure. Yeah, I like hamburgers. Who doesn’t like hamburgers?”

“Vegetarians,” she quipped. “Optimus is a vegetarian, he couldn’t believe that humans eat other life forms, but then, Cybertron hasn’t followed traditional ecological rules since—well, anyway, it was a struggle to convince him that it was alright for him to eat plants.” Even while she complained, though, she was smiling, raking a hand through her fiery hair, while he stared at her as blankly as if they weren’t even speaking the same language. “Come on, Cap. You can buy me dinner, and I’ll tell you why you’re here.”


End file.
